All Your Reasons
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: Purpose and Pandora weren't exactly synonymous with each other. Every act was done on impulse, often a selfish one. But with times changing, and Hyperion rising, the four Vault Hunters had to adapt to their new world, and find new reasons to fight.


**Hey everyone, sorry about my lack of activity lately but I've been inundated with crew duties at a musical and NaNoWriMo. But please enjoy this little appetiser while you wait!**

Pandora didn't have time for the weak, or the merciful, or the soft, or any combination of these. Like the harsh sun that circled it, wilting anything green or growing, it crushed and burned these finer parts of humanity, till all that was left were the hardened edges and surfaces necessary to survive the planet. Once you got past this, living was actually kind of simple. You just had to assume that everyone else wanted to kill you. Except the ones who didn't. So long as you had that down, you stood a chance. Oh, and some big damn guns.

But what happened when you gave up the lone wolf life, and not for one filled with banditry and pillaging either? No, that _other_ kind of life, the one that Pandorans slowly forgot over time. Looking out for people. Learning to trust them. Even befriending them. Humane traits, ones that might have been cultivated had things gone differently, had the Vault never existed.

It was not easy. It wasn't even fun. But in circumstances such as this...you couldn't pick and choose.

Because as annoying and even dangerous as other people were on Pandora, they were pure heaven compared to the cold-blooded madman that was Handsome Jack, Hyperion's new tycoon and the man who had somehow made Hell even worse.

******************************************************

Roland fought Jack because of what he represented.

Ever since he was a kid, playing war games in his old neighbourhood, pretending to be a badass soldier and explorer of incredible far-away places, he'd wanted to sign up and make a difference. Help people who couldn't help themselves. His parents hadn't been too happy about that-both of them factory workers without a trace of imagination-but they hadn't been very good parents anyway. Hell, he'd practically raised himself. But they had taught him respect, so when he was 18, he only took as much as he needed, slipped away quietly in the night after leaving a note and headed for the nearest Crimson Lance recruitment office.

Starry-eyed and full of dreams, he'd been. That had been the first practical joke played on him, he often reflected bitterly. Usually he'd been the one to pull them, but this time the universe had got him good. The Lance was nothing but a pack of brutal, trigger-happy murderers who swanned about like the galaxy owed them everything and then some. Roland had shown capability and so made lieutenant, but from there he stalled. The only way to advance was to commit certain acts, and Roland would not do them. They'd scorned him, called him soft, threatened to demote him. There was even talk of a firing squad if he didn't fall in line.

So one night he slipped into Captain Naquel's room and cut his throat. And from there, he was on the run. Pulling a few strings with the few friends he'd made in the Lance, he reviewed his options. In the end, he'd decided on a backwater dustball in the far rim planets. Pandora.

He'd never liked the way things were done in the Lance, not before and certainly not after murdering his old CO, but he'd taken comfort in the fact that they were (a) only soldiers and (b) only a mercenary company. The best equipped and trained one in the galaxy, maybe, but still, only mercenaries. He knew how to handle them, all their tricks and stratagems. When he and the gang had found out they were the ones who'd busted up the Old Haven bandits, he'd simply shrugged. More people who wanted him dead. There wasn't much difference, except that they used turrets and actually wore armour. And, you know, didn't run at him with an axe screaming about meat puppets.

When they'd discovered Tannis had been duping them all along and the Lance attacked the Salt Flats in force, he was actually glad. This would be better than taking it out on some goddamn desert-scrounging murderers. This would be personal. From then on, every red-and-black clad man that fell to his rifle or Scorpio was a notch on his belt. It didn't matter if they had more, if eventually they'd get him with a lucky shot. These bastards were willing to turn the whole of Pandora into a Lance fiefdom, and for that they deserved no mercy, no quarter.

When Commandant Steele was killed by the Destroyer, and her entire expedition wiped out by the Eridian sentinels, he felt nothing but satisfaction. Maybe this would convince the Lance to fuck off and leave Pandora alone. Unfortunately they didn't, and came back harder than ever, this time with General Knoxx AND the full backing of the Atlas Corporation. But when they'd crippled that operation too, culminating in the total destruction of the armoury and the beginning of the end for Atlas, he felt something foreign. Hope. He knew both Atlas and the Lance were major players in some of the scummiest, shadiest operations in the galaxy. Could their actions on this one tiny dustball planet have dealt all of that a blow?

Looking back, Roland wished he'd just stayed in Fyrestone and kept his head down. Because when the eridium started to spread like a violet plague, and Jack's robotic hordes began to sweep the Borderlands clean of anything that didn't fall to its knees at the sight of the Hyperion leader, he knew what he'd done. He'd shaken the hornet's nest. He'd upset the balance, and now, Pandora and all her citizens were paying for it. Jack? He was just a megalomaniac, one who had stolen the finding of the Vault and appropriated it for his own use. But in him was instilled Roland's greatest failure.

He formed the Raiders, teamed up with Lilith and Mordecai, and fought back when he could. Even found more Vault Hunters. But this was more than justice for him. This was personal. This was his mess, and it was up to him to clean it up. No matter how many times Lilith laid a hand on his shoulder, whispering to him _you're not to blame, we were all there_, he felt guilt clench around his heart.

He would end this, or it would end him. No third option existed.

**********************************************************

Lilith fought Jack because of what he'd done to her sisters across the galaxy.

Because there were only seven of them-eight if you counted that bitch Steele, who had stormed from their ranks long ago-it was easy to keep tabs on them. There was hot-tempered Jhenna, who could manipulate storms. Capricious Tharee, who controlled water like an extension of her body. The telepathic twins, Mhera and Ori, who always seemed to be in each other's heads. Selena, who enjoyed finding barren planets where she could reshape the earth with her power. Cool and confident Maya, who seemed perpetually amused. And then there was her, Lilith, fire-wielder and phasewalker. Deadly in battle and in looks. That was her.

Pandora had seemed the perfect place for her. No laws, no governments, no stupid fucking villagers to shout, "Witch!" and try to burn her at the stake. That had happened once, unfortunately, She'd tried explaining to them that it wouldn't work, but they hadn't listened, and she'd been forced to be firm. That village was now a crater.

So yeah, Pandora. Nothing to look at, but plenty of fun to be had. Especially with friends. And deadly, killer friends at that. A brawny, handsome soldier. A tall, lanky sniper. A burly, fiendishly strong berserker. Perfect people to kill with. And so it went for a while, riding around in old junkers, seeing and exploring the unknown, killing it with guns and spells. It was decent.

Of course, a Siren never stayed secret for long, something she was all too familiar with. Thanks to the ECHO network, word got out fast. Every time they raided a bandit outpost and some managed to escape, she went into a rage. Partly because she hated letting anyone get away from her that she'd had a mind to kill, but also because her reputation was growing, even among this infamous foursome.

Treacher's Landing…what a mess that had been. The bandits had constructed primitive warships and were preparing to set sail to make raids up and down the coast. It was their luck that the Vault Hunters attacked just as they were about to set sail. They'd killed every bandit they saw and set fire to the ships, but two managed to escape. She'd been furious, tossing phaseblasts everywhere, until Roland seized her by the shoulders. "What the hell is wrong with you!" he'd yelled into her face. Behind him, Mordecai and Brick looked on warily. This wasn't something they wanted to get into the middle of.

She'd just snarled at Roland. "You don't care, "she hissed. "You don't give a fuck. You just want the Vault, and the Siren can just deal with all of the shit once it hits the fan. We're done here." She strode away.

If only they had been. When the Lance came down, led by none other than her estranged sister Steele-sorry, _Commandant _Steele-the bandits were the least of her worries. Still, the Vault beckoned. Even after losing the key, having to fend off Lance death squads, hearing about the loss of Sanctuary to the enemy-she could still feel the thrill of anticipation as they climbed the freezing peaks, searching for the elusive treasure. It would be theirs.

And then they'd found nothing but tentacles and disappointment. Even the death of her once-sister cut deeply. One less Siren in the universe. She'd been numb, the others the same. She shed the title of Vault Hunter, and focused on the task of survival. Despite taking down the Lance for good, and stopping a revolution led by Claptrap, she felt hollow inside.

That all went away, though, when Hyperion began its invasion. News of the outside galaxy was scant, but Jack was one to boast. When he'd torn through New Haven, he'd broadcasted images to her ECHO unit. Images that dropped a cold weight into her gut, and a red mist to her eyes.

Mhera and Ori, both laid out on tables like cold cuts, full of wires and tubes, not moving. Jhenna, inside a pod of some kind, screaming as they put needles into her eyes. And pictures of her other sister's various homes, burning and being searched by Hyperion personnel. All of what they had, burned and gone. Jack's horrific laughter over the radio.

So from that day onward, she never fought with apathy, never did anything for fun. Fun had been part of another time, when the myth of the Sirens was legendary, when they were powerful and couldn't be stopped. Against an enemy like this, she might as well have been a little girl, cringing against hordes of monsters. She didn't even care that Jack took the credit for finding the Vault. It belonged to another time, another Lilith. It was no longer her.

Every enemy killed was one less they had to worry about. When Roland asked her to get the Bloodshots off his back, she agreed to it without question. They might not have been Hyperion, but they were still bandits. Still murderers and scum. And the eridium only made things better. Such _power! _Such _wrath!_

She enjoyed watching them burn.

***************************************************

Mordecai fought Jack because he needed the challenge.

He was good at learning to hate things. If someone was to ask him, _"Hey, Mordecai, what are your interests?", _and assuming they weren't either a bandit, a target or his pain-in-the-ass uncle Geoff, he would say, in that low croaking voice of his, "Oh, you know. Sniping. Underdome contests. Hunting. Collecting game trophies. Spare ribs. Vitamin supplements. Headshots. Stuff like that." But you know what wouldn't be on that list? Boredom. God's sake, was there anything _worse _than boredom? Sometimes it made him wonder why he was so into this sniping gig, until he remembered all the times he'd shown the impossible was just a slightly bigger version of the possible. Then he'd chuckle to himself.

He liked his peace and quiet, too. That was something Pandora had going for it, against the countless things that it didn't. While his three companions had constantly complained about the desolate landscape (admittedly, the grit got annoying after a while), he'd just soaked it up. Jagged mountain crags soaring above massive plains and deserts, stretching out to the horizon, with the occasional boulder and stunted tree. Even the veritable labyrinths of scrap metal and junk somehow made a pretty picture. Not so much the skag piles, he kept putting his foot in those. Shooting the little bastards from two hundred metres away was fun, though.

He wasn't leader material. That was more Roland's job, which suited him just fine. When they'd taken down Nine-Toes, he was the one who put a round through Pinky's eye. When they'd faced off against Sledge, he was the one who threaded the needle and shot the hammer-wielding sonuvabitch right in his red visor. And when the Lance started taking them seriously and sent their best men to take them down, well. He'd capped plenty of heads, and for the odd one that slipped his scope? Bloodwing was there to take exception. A good bird, that one. A good friend.

Being on the run from mercenaries was nothing new to him. Hell, he had the death sentence in twelve different star systems. And that goddamn infringement notice from that sniping contest from when he was seventeen (it was complete bullshit, just cause he knew how to use a revolver). But this was different. For one thing, he was with company. That made him nervous-it was harder to cut and run when he had companions that had, to his annoyance, saved his life a few times. Meaning it was harder to just cut his losses. Not to mention Lilith would find him, all-knowing Siren that she was.

For a second thing, the Lance was after the Vault too. He hadn't entirely believed in it, but after seeing the Eridian ruins, the vault key and all the rest of it, it was hard to ignore. Against his better judgement, he'd felt more than just his usual "thrill-for-the-kill", as he'd coined it. This was greed, pure and simple. The Vault was nearby, and although in the past he would have settled for some dough, a better brand of sniper rifle and some snacks for Blood, he had a sudden change of heart. Screw tiny profits, screw just getting by. He was ready to take back everything this freakin' universe owed him, and the Vault would be his meal ticket.

The Destroyer had been a shock. An ancient evil interdimensional monster? Now _that_ would have made a good trophy for his wall. In any case, it was mortal enough, and eventually fell to their combined firepower. Once the smoke cleared, and the monster went limp, he'd been the first to run over to the rent in the mountain wall, searching for that elusive symbol. Searching for the legendary riches of the Vault.

Only to find jack, nada, zip, zilch. What the fuck.

A token finder's fee from that crazy bitch Tannis had done nothing to alleviate his black mood. And that was the way it had been for the next few years. They weren't Vault Hunters, not anymore. They stayed together, but that was out of necessity. Roland was always intent on their next move, on the future, but Lilith was a shell of her former self, and Brick more sullen than ever. He focused on his job, which he became ever more proficient at. Zombies, wereskags, badass bruisers, Lance assassins, destroyer mechs, goddamned claptraps: he conquered them all.

He'd grown to like the idea of the purge, of cleansing. Pandora was still a wasteland, but it was a wasteland he called home. And every bandit killed made it a little safer.

He stopped liking the idea when Handsome Jack arrived.

Jack's idea of a cleansing was to take the entire Borderlands, label it an uncivilised morass brimming with criminals and bandits, and kill everything in his path. Which, thanks to the full backing of the Hyperion Corporation, countless tons of eridium and _taking credit for the Vault discovery_ (he was still pissed about that), meant he could be plenty choosy about it. As much of a bastard as Jack was, he could grudgingly admit they were somewhat the same. They both liked to make the impossible, possible. Jack had essentially privatised the Borderlands, including New Haven. That was no mean feat.

A man of his talents would be even more useful in this new day and age. So one day, he grabbed his stolen E-Tech sniper rifle, hiked it out to the Tundra Express, and started watching. Waiting. Occasionally getting hammered.

His next challenge would come soon, he was sure of it.

****************************************************

Brick didn't want to fight Jack at all. But circumstances forced his hand. Or his fists, rather.

Out of all the Vault Hunters, Brick got along with Mordecai the best. It was a weird combination, the beanpole sniper and the hulking berserker, but they both shared a similar world view. Fighting, killing and battling to survive were the greatest highs available to a man. In a perfect world, every fight would be a challenge, and every enemy bleeding out on the ground would be a sweet to savour. But whereas Mordecai kept a tally in his head, always striving to make it bigger and more impressive, Brick just killed and killed. Like an irresistible force, who had yet to meet his immovable object.

And goddamnit if Pandora wasn't a perfect world. Not much to look at, sure, but it wasn't much worse than his old stomping grounds back on Menoetius. Back there, the Atlas Corporation would grab you hard by the nuts and squeeze the life out of you, assuming one of the countless Lance patrols or fiefdoms didn't riddle you with holes first. He'd worked hard to keep himself safe and strong, entering the local gladiator contests put on by the Atlas executive-overseers. Made plenty of money, and even a name for himself. Most of that had gone towards his one true love, Priscilla. God, he'd loved that stupid mutt. Whenever he came home from one of his fights, drenched in sweat and blood, she'd come running up to him, barking excitedly, and licking his face. The one thing on that miserable planet that made him feel good that wasn't fighting, ever since his sister had disappeared and he'd assumed she was dead.

So when she died of old age, peacefully in her sleep, he'd cried. He'd cried and cried until his heart nearly burst. He'd carried her scrawny body to a secluded spot, buried her in style. One of her paws, a wonky old thing that hadn't treated her well towards the end, he sliced off neatly and took it to a local embalmer. He wanted something to remember her by. Something to wear around his neck, as a remnant of better times.

Because things started to go downhill, rapidly. The Atlas Corporation wanted his head, for some reason, and the Lance were only too happy to help them out. Suddenly his former fans and admirers wanted nothing to do with him. Some even tried to hunt him down themselves. So he killed them with his bare hands, stole a ship and headed out into the galaxy. He'd never done it before, but he didn't care. He just wanted to find a place where he could start anew. That's when he picked up a Lance transmission that stopped him cold.

_"Fugitive M-311 has left the planet. Could be he's after his sister. We lost track of her after she jumped planet on Promethia. She could be anywhere."  
"Forget him. He'll probably just head to Pandora like all the other scum. Hell, she probably went there too. Most Promethia drifters do. The bandits or skags will get them."  
"I hear that."_

If Rowena was alive, he had to find her. No matter how slim the lead was. So he had gunned the engines and set course for Pandora.

The only problem with this planet was the constant internal battle he was fighting, even as he was pulping the skulls of bandits. One on hand, he wanted to find his sister, the hell with any mythical Vault. On the other, he loved to kill, and killing was the national sport on this planet. It was tempting to just lose himself to it, to revel in the blood and the gore completely and detach himself from any remaining traces of humanity. It was so tempting. But he'd held firm, and as he did so, the legend of the Vault enticed him more and more. With all that loot and technology, he could find his sister. He would hire entire armies to comb the six galaxies until she was found. Plus, he'd always wanted a pair of gold-plated brass knuckles. So there was that.

He'd barely listened to the vociferous arguments between Roland and Lilith concerning what path to take, which jobs they should do. He was in no rush. Once the Vault was found, everything would take care of itself. Even with just a share, he'd be rich beyond imagining.

His rage when they'd killed the Destroyer and found nothing but dust and slime had been terrible. His shrieks of grief had echoed across the Eridian Promontory, and it had taken hours before he stopped. Even then, his chest heaving, fists bunching, his scream continued on the inside. Their fight had been for nothing. Rowena was still missing. And he had no means to find her. When Tannis had granted them a finder's fee, he'd briefly considered killing the other three and taking it, though it was a fucking pittance. But he couldn't do that, not now. They'd shared something together, and even though he wanted badly to take the money for himself, he couldn't. His sister wouldn't want that.

They'd kept moving, working on jobs, cleaning up the planet as Mordecai put it. But his hearty laugh and booming voice was gone. He'd slipped on a mask of black temper, and he refused to remove it. The one time Roland had asked about it, Brick nearly tore his arm off. It wasn't anyone's goddamn business, and what the hell would they know? So on he went, killing without joy as he had in the past.

It took a Hyperion-sponsored invasion and the arrival of Handsome Jack to rouse him from his malaise.

Brick knew that there were always powerful forces out there in the galaxy, and that a lone man would inevitably bend to these forces. But the width and breadth of Jack's iron hand was staggering. In less than a month, he'd conquered all the remaining lance holdouts, taken over the eridium deposits and taken New Haven. From that moment, seeing that mechanical bastard Wilhelm rampage through the streets, gunning down innocents, Brick knew he couldn't just lie down and be passive any longer. He'd fought with his old rage, pounding the Hyperion forces with a vengeance. More would have died if it wasn't for him, said Roland, and he'd felt a weird emotion after they'd fled for Sanctuary. He couldn't put his finger on it.

It was a shame that he'd been forced to leave after ripping Shep Sanders limb from limb. Roland had been none too happy about that, but Brick had refused to back down. The man had been a goddamn traitor. Women and children burned, families torn apart, all because the sonuvabitch wanted to get in Jack's good books. Well, he had shown Sanders what that amounted to. A bloody death.

So off to the Thousand Cuts he'd gone, making himself the local bandit leader. From there he'd continued to fight, unaffiliated with Sanctuary. What he couldn't figure out was that Roland had sent Lilith to fight the Bloodshots, posing as a demoness. Making the myth into reality. Wasn't that the same thing as he'd been doing? Putting the fear back in their enemies? Fighting fire with fire?

Roland wanted to be the honourable side, the good guys in this war. But this was Pandora. There were no good guys. Just the enemy, who had to be killed. If Roland and his Raiders didn't figure that out soon, they were all good as dead.


End file.
